


The Chronicler and the Fae

by Firelight_and_Rain



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Angst, Bast being Bast, Character Study, Death Threats, Domesticity, M/M, Poor Chronicler, Slow Build, Some mention of suicide / mental health issues, creative interpretation of good manners, i'd really like to just copy and paste from gdocs by this point ok, really fairly fluffy actually in the actual shippy part, the author does not know html, unrequited bast x kvothe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firelight_and_Rain/pseuds/Firelight_and_Rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the line between helping yourself and helping someone else.<br/>Chronicler isn’t as professional as he wants to pretend, Kvothe is in fact only mortal, and Bast isn’t as much of a bastard as he seems, except when he is.<br/>This is only some days in the life at the Waystone.<br/>Set long after reading The Wise Man’s Fear, wrote after reading the short story The Lightning Tree, wrote because there was no fic of this ship on AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a deceptively peaceful day after last night’s storm.  


Kvothe - or Kote - was behind the bar, inventorying the liquor, and while it was a matter of serious business after recent events, he went through it as though it were busywork.  


“Do you know where Bast is?” The innkeeper did a very good job of sounding unconcerned. Devan was by necessity practiced at reading what people wanted to keep hid, but Kvothe was still a regular challenge.  


For someone who always seemed too insightful by half, the Chronicler wasn’t sure how Kvothe thought that dealing with Bast by letting him have the run of this small town without his one friend in any way involved was going to end at all well. Didn’t he remember what he used to be like, with something to prove?  


Did he think Bast was going to settle down and build a life with someone else?  


For all that Kvothe might accuse him of lack of experience, and, therefore, perspective - Kvothe might be running as far as he could from his past, but there was yet something significant clouding his judgement.  


“No,” Chronicler replied. Then, “I’m sure he just wanted to get some air.” This was as much to convince himself as to convince the other man.


	2. Chapter 2

Life hadn’t been normal since Devan left his secure childhood for the University. While he had expected it to get even stranger after meeting Kvothe, it was really Bast who kept turning everything upside-down or fucking things up. Or both.  


Well, what did he expect from one of the Fae? They were all storybook characters here, as Kvothe had vindictively proven.  


But really Chronicler let himself be lulled into a false sense of security by how completely, pitiably human Bast’s troubles were.

Just as Chronicler hadn’t seen any of the Fae before this chapter of his life (well that he knew about), he’d never seen a Fae drunk - or, more accurately, hungover. It was several evenings after Kvothe had come to the end of retelling his story, and Bast had decided to take one of the standard approaches to the lingering tension, or so Chronicler deduced. It was early morning again. Chronicler and Kvothe had been discussing what to do about Chronicler. While he hadn’t avoided a certain connection to these stubborn people and their lives - and he was worried about Kvothe, which he would admit, and Bast, which he wouldn’t admit (at least not to Bast) - the Chronicler wasn’t Kvothe. Whether it was due to his being a son of privilege or not, he’d never dreamed of setting up shop in a little backwater and whiling away his life there. He did feel bad for Bast. Maybe the Fae was inexplicably making a good run at it (inexplicably because childishly or not Devan could just not imagine a prince of the Tehlu-damned Fae content to serve beer and chase skirts for long), but someone - probably Kvothe - was going to get seriously hurt if he had to be stuck here showing the pleasant human face to all the world except one man.  


Bast was sort of like one of those University students who was just a bit too wild and brilliant to see anyone but himself and his favorite master as fully human, and also had the excuse of not, actually, being human himself.  


It was a bit of a nightmare.  


Speaking of Bastas …  


Kvothe was giving his assistant a disappointed glower. Chronicler set his face in a neutral expression; no, he wouldn’t have gotten himself in this position, but getting skunk-drunk and running out on one’s suicidal employer was small fry compared to invading his bed in the middle of the night and then threatening to tear his heart out and either eat it or play it as an instrument, it was getting kind of hard to keep track.  


Bast’s hair somehow still managed to be perfect. Chronicler was willing to blame abuse of magic. Beg pardon - glamourie.  


“Are you going to do your work today, or should I reschedule it?” Kvothe asked.  


Bast’s face crumpled, like he’d been hoping for fury before this worn-through calm.  


“I - need a bath, Reshi.”  


Kvothe nodded. “Well, hurry up. We need to help our guest.”  


“The roads are still bad,” Bast muttered.  


“I’ve managed so far. Trust me,” Chronicler replied, though his shoulders tensed at the memory of the scrael.  


Bast turned his unhappy face to the scribe before walking - or, more accurately, prowling - up the stairs.

Chronicler was surprised by how smoothly that went. Bast had tried to sabotage his departure before, though thankfully not with threats that time.

*

As it went earlier -  


*

Chronicler wasn’t sure what woke him up. He knew that humans were generally not prescient and that he certainly wasn’t, but he was also a survivor in his own way.  


Within seconds of waking he was pretty sure of what, or who, had woken him.  


He sat up in his bed and tried to focus his eyes in the inky dark. It occurred to him that he might have wanted to change his room, but not that that would have been profoundly useless.  


“Why do you have my satchel?” Devan asked, genuinely confused.  


Bast froze, Chronicler’s satchel over his shoulder. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but his eyes seemed their frost blue, and his feet seemed to be bent a bit the wrong way. Devan balled the sheets in his fists and focused on being calm. If Bast decided to throw a fit, well, he’d weathered that before none the worse for wear. But he really needed his satchel and Bast didn’t because Chronicler had heard Kvothe all but accuse the Fae of illiteracy multiple times (not that Chronicler blamed him, what with his tutor being Kvothe - that had to be a lot of pressure). Not to mention that the entire reason Bast took any interest in his existence was his writing (contained in his satchel), and the dissemination of such.  


“Why do you think I have your satchel?”  


Chronicler just shrugged.  


“Obviously because -”  


Bast stopped. Chronicler waited expectantly.  


“Because you haven’t fulfilled your part of the agreement yet,” he finished, and just like that he wasn’t Bast the student sneaking into his room (again) for no good reason, he was Bastas, Prince of Twilight, for whom human concepts like bedrooms, logic, and sensible motivation did not apply.  


“Bast-,” Chronicler started, because as much as he didn’t want to, it had to be broached sometime, for all their sakes. Bast might kill him for it, but he also might kill him for failing to deliver on an impossible task, so really there was equal risk either way. “You do know that the reason I failed is because you asked me to do something impossible, right? You might be able to demand that I do what you want, but you can’t just make someone get better.” Chronicler shrugged. “I might be stubborn, but even I realize that.”  


Bast was staring like he couldn’t quite understand what he was hearing.  


“I’m sorry,” Chronicler offered. He meant it.  


“You do realize I can kill you and make you wish I’d do it quicker, right?”  


“And you realize that no amount of threats can make me do the impossible. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”  


Bast didn’t reply to that.  


“And I do need my satchel back, if I’m going to preserve Kvothe’s version of the story.”  


The Fae moved next to the bed, moving too fast to be as leisurely as he was about it. He dropped the satchel with a small, audible thump.  


“I don’t care about Kvothe’s version of the story.”  


“But -”  


“I care about the old version of Kvothe.”  


On impulse, Devan reached out towards Bastas, no idea of his own intent … But Bast was already moving back towards the window.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course Bast decided to show his merrier side at Chronicler’s sort of going-away party. What with his being a Prince of the Fae Chronicler … actually, no, Chronicler was happy that Bast seemed close to back to his own self, Tehlu knew why.  


Even if it meant many, many jokes at his expense.

*

Chronicler hated closing the last page on a story, especially one that still had so much potential, especially one authored by someone he so admired. But life was the strictest of muses, wasn’t she?

*

Being the narrator, Devan might have hoped to avoid the abuses usually heaped on the protagonist.  


It was the worst of luck that the bounty hunters came for Kvothe while Chronicler was leaving, satchel full of deadly secrets. Of course, they couldn’t read his cipher, but it aroused suspicion that neither he nor anyone else needed at all.  


Rubbing at his bruises and staring after the group of toughs, Chronicler was faced with a choice; take his story and leave the rest of this story to fate, or try to outpace a group of un-bruised armed men who would likely kill him if he ruined his ‘harmless scribe’ cover by crossing their paths again.

*

If questioned, afterwards Devan would say that he made the right choice. But regardless of moral certainties, it was also a choice that in the immediacy he was sure was going to get him killed, painfully, in short order.  


The bounty hunters had figured he wasn’t just an unconnected scribe when they unfortunately found him in the Waystone’s main room. Predictably they weren’t fond of the idea of leaving behind such a loose end.  


Chronicler was trying to haul himself up onto his elbows, blood dripping over his bottom lip, vaguely aware of a boot coming towards him, when someone gave a loud yell.  


Chronicler was too dazed to follow what happened next, beyond the crashing and alarmed yells. His survivor’s instincts provided him with the phrase “the enemy of my enemy” before his mind could hope to consciously process it, and he collapsed gratefully. Sometime after, he was rolled onto his back and careful hands took stock of his injuries. It was easy enough to recognize the dark blur above him, but the “You’re an idiot” confirmed it.  


Chronicler went to say something but Bast laid a hand over his mouth. “Just shut up. Also, Kvothe was out when they came in.”  


Bast laughed at his pained scowl. Then, gentle as a summer breeze, he knelt, picked Chronicler up, and carried him up to his bed.

*

Things were calmer for the short while before Kvothe returned. Bast patched Chronicler up best he could - though the milk spell didn’t make a reappearance - and then puttered around the room after Chronicler had explained what had happened and he left the room to “clean up the mess” (Chronicler did not want to know).  


“Thank you.”  


“It was nothing.” Probably true. Chronicler had already seen him confront worse and come out unscathed. He should just take up the kingkiller mantle and go be a hero since he cared so much, if he weren’t so in love with the man, Chronicler thought woozily.  


“What are you doing with my satchel?” Chronicler asked. Again.  


“Making sure you didn’t lose anything.” Bast lifted out the holly crown and stared at it for a moment before returning it with care. He went over to Chronicler’s bed and sat on the edge of it. “You know, you’d almost make a good Fae.”  


“Oh?” Chronicler asked.  


“Yes.” Bast wore a cousin to the smile he’d worn at Chronicler’s going-away party, but there was something different about this one. Chronicler - not Devan, Chronicler - was reluctant to read the exact difference, but it put him in mind of a fox kit. “You make terrible decisions, and are completely obsessed with one thing!”  


Chronicler had no idea how to respond to that. Bast placed a companionable hand on his shoulder. Chronicler looked at it; it was much like the rest of Bast, elegant and well-proportioned, but slightly pruned from cleansing hot water and scuffed across the knuckles. Chronicler couldn’t think of any reason not to, so he sank back into his pillow and fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

There was hell to pay when Kvothe came back from his outing to wherever (which was odd, because Chronicler knew that Kvothe hardly ever, ever, left the Waystone). Chronicler didn’t even try to be awake for it. Another time, another place, and he would have found it unforgivable to miss this seventh act crisis. As it was, he just didn’t want to see how Bast was reacting to Kvothe’s bad mood when he didn’t have a hapless chew toy to take care of.  


Kvothe was forbiddingly tense when he entered the room, but made an effort to tone it down and relax as he went over to the bedside.  


“I’m sorry,” Chronicler said.  


Kvothe sighed. “This wasn’t your fault. Bast said you came back to warn me?”  


Chronicler nodded.  


“You shouldn’t have done that.”  


“Why do you people never believe that I’m a professional?”  


Kvothe gave an apologetic smile, but, as he often did, Devan got the impression that he wasn’t really seeing him.  


“So what now?” Chronicler asked, muscling his way up to set his back against the headboard.  


When Bast went to hover anxiously across from his master was when Chronicler realized that he was in the room with them.  


Kvothe blinked away that lost-in-memory look. “What do you think, Devan? What’s my line?”  


Devan shifted to make himself comfortable, and then answered as honestly as he could, even if he wasn’t sure of the good it could do. “You can have Bast kill anyone who tries to hunt you down.” Bastas nodded his confirmation of this plan. “You can wait and turn yourself in, because you blame yourself for incidents outside your control, and also because of whatever you assume about the Cht - the monster tree. You can run again, and keep running. You could also make a stand for yourself. As far as I can tell, the people here would stand by you in that, King’s officers or no King’s officers.”  


Kvothe closed his eyes briefly before opening them and forcing a smile. Chronicler realized as he did what he’d said “wrong”, and thanked his lucky stars that Bast never would.  


“Well, we can’t have that,” Kvothe said, and Chronicler swore inwardly. Kvothe looked over at his student, and his mouth set in a grim line.  


“Don’t worry,” he added, as he was leaving and Bast was following him out. “Whatever I choose I’ll keep in mind that I have a bedridden guest, and that you are because you were trying to help me.”  


“I wasn’t worried,” Chronicler replied, even though he kind of had been.

*

The Waystone Inn was scrubbed clean, echoing, foreboding as a tomb. It was the earliest hours of the morning. Kvothe had gone through the prior evening, outwardly, as if nothing had changed. He had been considering. Some of the patrons asked after Chronicler - hadn’t he set off already? Well, yes, but had been robbed again, worse luck. The roads really are terrible nowadays. Well, he can come down and we’ll buy him a commiserating drink, they offered. The innkeeper’s sweet-tempered assistant offered to bring him up one, to laughter, since he really should remain recuperating in bed.  


Kote didn’t say anything to hint at Kvothe’s decision.  


And eventually the patrons left.  


Kvothe wanted to keep the volume of the argument down in case Chronicler was sleeping, but Bast had no such compunctions. If Chronicler had been in the innkeeper’s place, he would have ended up hiding behind the counter. Bastas lost his glamourie, again. Chronicler would have been flattered to learn that his largely incidental attempts at friendship kept the Fae more civil about this inevitability than he’d have expected, but Chronicler wouldn’t ever know the details.  


Once the dust settled, there was nothing more for Bast to say, no threats to make, no way to cajole, and nothing outward and simple to confront.  
He stepped forward into Kvothe’s open arms, and gripped him tightly for several long heartbeats.

*

Chronicler startled upright when Bast swept into the room. The sky was the solid slate shroud that preceded the dawn. Bast’s glamourie was gone, and he moved like the wind before the storm.  


Kvothe had chosen to leave, then. Devan wasn’t sure what he felt about that. If he’d chosen to stay, with whatever particulars, Bast would be fiercely elated. If he’d chosen in any way to acknowledge defeat, the results would be more cataclysmic than a broken heart. Chronicler was just confused as to why Bast didn’t think he’d be going with.  


“So-”  


“Be quiet,” Bast said, fierce and quiet and soft.  


Chronicler leaned forward, mouth open just a bit as he tried to think what in the world to say. He was used to lancing other’s emotional wounds, but never in the position of a friend. Or something like it. Bast wasn’t looking at him.  


The Fae princeling went to the window, popped it open, and climbed onto the windowsill, wrapping his arms around himself like a gargoyle, haloed by stars.


	5. Chapter 5

Chronicler was torn between keeping vigil and giving Bast his privacy. Eventually his physical state decided the matter, and he drifted back off the sleep.  


When he woke up, it was near noon. He looked around the room, and seeing no inkeeper (or magician)’s assistant, forced himself out of bed and hobbled over to grab a shirt. Luck or something else, he’d be right as rain given enough time. But Bast was in a worse state than he was, and while he knew that he was just deflecting his professional disappointment over misplacing Kvothe, but, according to the ethical standards of a traveling, meddlesome scribe, something had to be done about that by someone anyway.  


For lack of any other idea, Chronicler went down to the Waystone’s main room. To his surprise, Bast was already behind the counter, cooking.  


Chronicler sat down at the counter. “What’s for breakfast, barkeep?”  


Bast turned and stared at him blankly. The moment dragged on, and it was awkward. Chronicler got up and went behind the counter himself. “So.” He looked down at the counter, with its cutting board and on that a lump of dough. “Uh - you know how to cook?”  


Bast made a choking noise that could have been either a laugh or a sigh of frustration. “Yes, Chronicler,” he said. “I know how to cook.”  


“Well, obviously you’ve been helping Kvothe, but I didn’t get the impression you cared to -”  


That was definitely a pained expression. “Here. At least make yourself useful.” And Bast shoved the board towards him, explaining in great detail how to make a loaf of bread.  


“I know how to make a loaf of bread,” Chronicler said.  


“Good for you,” Bast said, because he was apparently five.

*

When Old Cote and the other patrons filtered in, Kote’s absence was near-immediately noted. The smith’s apprentice was the one to outright ask after him. Chronicler, set up in his usual spot and mostly clean of flour, pricked up his ears, but tried to appear uninterested.  


The innkeeper’s assistant explained that Kote’s parents had sent him a letter quite unexpectedly after his brother had quite unexpectedly been drafted. And that he’d left the inn in Bast’s care, and that Chronicler would be sticking around to help him about the place. Because Chronicler was a decent sort. Also - though Bast only delivered this message in the spaces between his words - Bast really was a sweet boy, but needed a better head around the place to help him out. It was, Chronicler thought, a nice bit of silent theatrics that Kvothe would be proud of. The patrons were disappointed and concerned that their innkeeper was gone - how long would he be away, did they think? Well, you know how it is, Bast replied. I hope he’ll be back soon - but in these times, who knows?  


And of course they wanted to hear about Kote’s family.  


Bast did a good job of keeping up his friendly neighbour face, but once most of the farmers had drifted back out to go about their evening, he sat down next to Chronicler and let his forehead drop to the table. Chronicler rested a hand awkwardly on his shoulder. After a moment, Bast reached over and grabbed his wrist. Chronicler was a bit confused as to why he’d done that, but, hell, Bast had done much stranger.  


And then Bast fell asleep and Chronicler realized that he hadn’t been sure that the Fae even slept at all. It was kind of adorable.  


Of course that left Chronicler in charge of the Waystone, as small a job as it was considering the circumstances. He detached Bast’s hand from his wrist, and, getting up, gave it a shot.

*

Fortunately for Chronicler, the patrons seemed to feel familial towards the Waystone’s staff. So when the last patrons had all left, he went over to Bast, who was still slumped in the corner. He shifted and blinked up at Chronicler, sleepy and grumpy. Chronicler covered a yawn with his hand. “So.”  
Bast frowned up at him. “So what?”  


“So, what’s your plan about Kvothe?”  


Bast deliberately raised himself onto his elbows, but he looked too rumpled and Chronicler was too tired for the negligible height increase to be intimidating. “What do you expect me to do about Kvothe?”  


“Uh - run after him?”  


“Yes, run after him,” Bast mocked. “What do you think I would have done if it was that simple?”  


“Then explain it to me, Bast, if you’re that fond of calling me an idiot.”  


“You really are hard to impress, aren’t you?” Bast asked in a sudden change of mood, propping his head up in his hand.  


“Well, if you don’t resort to ambushing me in my bed, and seeing as you’ve dissuaded me from thinking about the Fae as I used to, yes.”  


“I could do the bed thing.”  


“I would probably just fall asleep.”  


Bast sat up, leaned across the table, and grabbed Devan’s shirtfront. Chronicler didn’t react, at least not much, not even when the Fae closed his other hand around his throat. Bast tilted his head, like he was regarding a rare butterfly, and his hand was gentle. After a couple moments of this, he released Chronicler and leaned back in his seat.  


“A Chronicler who won’t listen to me, a Reshi who’s gone and a whole bunch of farmers who think I’m a cloud-brained human layabout. What am I supposed to do?”  


“Sleep. And tell me exactly what happened in the morning.”  


Bast chuckled darkly. “Sure, Nanny.”  


“You said it, not me.”  


Bast raised an eyebrow. “I might as well stop you before you get some kind of plan, like - climbing up the Waystone’s walls in the middle of the night.” He then looked distracted. “How many times did you fall down doing that, by the way?”  


“Not once.”  


The eyebrow rose again. “You’re a nobleman’s son. That’s surprising.”  


“Not really - Prince. What else does a papery little scriv do when he wants to get away from his tutors?”  


Bast smiled. “I imagine you got a hiding when they eventually found you, all bruised and covered in mud with leaves in your hair.” He seemed to find something very amusing, almost whimsical, in the image.  


Devan let the silence linger, as, he supposed, a small act of camaraderie. Then, “yes, but you might have noticed that I don’t take reprimanding very well.”  


Bast tilted his head and kept looking up at him, the firelight playing tricks to make his face look soft, even more like he’d been earlier talking to Kote’s patrons, maybe even like he might be talking to a pretty girl on an evening’s stroll. Nothing at all like he’d been the night he’d threatened to use Chronicler’s guts for garters. Night hair, dawn eyes, and chiaroscuro skin like the shadow of a chatoyant quartz gem.  


“No, I agree. And, well - you’re more stubborn than I am. I did as I was told.”  


“I don’t think manipulating both me and Kvothe counts as doing as you’re told.” Chronicler finally sat down across from him.  


“He’s going back to Tarbean. And - I don’t think I could have left him in a worse place. Or, where’s going to be in a worse place. And he wants me to stay behind to keep his cover story in place, and because he isn’t going to stay in that city, and whatever else he does after he probably wants to check on these people to make sure they haven’t all died. And all his things - all the treasures he forged as Kvothe, Kvothe the legend, are still here. Though I don’t think he likes that.”  


That makes sense, Chronicler thought first. That Kvothe would go to Tarbean. Not because of the crowds, but because it had been his crossroads. And maybe some level of knowledge of that was what was making Bast sick with misery, and keeping him from running after him.  


Heart-eater or not, the fact that Bast had obeyed proved that he cared in a deeper way than Devan did. Yet the scribe didn’t lack the heart to nudge Bast the short distance it would take him to snap and get Kvothe back. At least not tonight.  


“Well,” he said, uncomfortably, “I assume that you have some way to keep track of him - I mean, in touch?”  


Bast’s eyes were chipped sapphires, turning his heel as he bent to them. “Yes on the second.”  


“Well, I doubt he would be happy to come back to find you in a depressed puddle.”  


“You sound just like the people here.”  


Genuinely offended, Chronicler replied, “Believe me, I’m not happy about being stuck in this backwater with its only mystery gone until he deigns to come back.”  


Finally getting out of his chair, Bast said, “Oh, I’ll have to surprise you later.”  


“Please don’t sneak into my room and threaten me again.”  


Bast chuckled, though Chronicler didn’t know where he found the energy. “Don’t worry.” The eye contact lasted just a bit too long, or so Chronicler realized when it broke. Chronicler inclined his head to indicate he wasn’t worried.


	6. Chapter 6

And, not knowing what else to do, they tried to fall into a schedule to bide the time until Kvothe decided to come back, or Bast decided to go after him and drag Chronicler along so he didn’t have to violate his sense of honor, or Bast maybe revealed that he hadn’t even told the truth that night. Or something.  


It was just biding time.

*

“I want to show you something,” Bast said one morning, legs hanging down from where he was perched on Chronicler’s windowsill, heels kicking back against the interior wall.  


“I can’t think what you’d have to show me that would involve showing up unexpectedly in my bedroom again.” Deliberately ignoring the Fae’s presence, Devan got out of bed - which was admittedly all the more comfortable for having become rumpled and familiar - and looked around for his clothes, which in fact lay next to the armoire. The chill air raised the hairs on his arms and body, and the angle of the window didn’t let the honeyed rays of morning sun land directly on him.  


“Don’t tempt fate,” Bast replied cheerily. Devan gave him a mock-horrified look, even though the closet in the back of his mind where he’d stuffed certain thoughts started to rattle. Bast wore a loose, rough-spun shirt and suitable pants. It looked like this was going to be one of his good days.  


This wasn’t what Chronicler had signed up for. It perhaps said something about him that he hadn’t bothered to have that thought about, say, getting robbed.  


“You humans have no aesthetic sensibilities,” Bast complained as Devan tugged on his shirt.  


“Well, in that case you’ve gone native,” Chronicler grouched.  


“I don’t really need to dress up.” Bast stretched, rolled his shoulders, langorous.  


“And you think I do?” Chronicler demanded.  


Bast tilted his head. “N-nooo…”  


Chronicler bit the inside of his cheek, cursing his pale skin and, papery little scriv or not, open expressions.

*

When Chronicler asked Bast why exactly they were climbing down the outside of the Waystone, Bast shrugged (while clinging to the stones like a spider, which impressed Chronicler) and replied that he didn’t want to run into any of the patrons who he’d have to serve. Well, Chronicler asked, nervously looking about them, wouldn’t it be worse if someone saw them doing this? Only for you, Bast had replied cheekily.

*

To Chronicler’s surprise, Bast started quizzing him on his knowledge of brewery, of all things, while they trekked through the broken hill country. Chronicler was only human, but he was at least in good physical shape, and so was only lightly red while Bast showed off his superhuman endurance. Chronicler had asked where exactly they were going many times, but Bast refused to provide an answer and eventually he gave up.  


Their destination was a cave, an irregular rip in the ground. Bast stopped, and looked carefully around the area. Chronicler copied him, though he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for.  


As they entered, Chronicler realized that the cave smelled of alcohol. He was immediately curious, as anyone else would be.  


Bast laid a hand on Chronicler’s shoulder, tugging on his shirt to guide him over the uneven floor, until they shortly found a spot where the ground started to slope upwards. Light fell in - or might be said to have been place, with how well-ordered it seemed - and illuminated a series of copper apparatus. What Chronicler knew about brewery - a respectable amount, as he knew a respectable amount about most things except the Fae - told him to be impressed, and so he was.  


“Is this - Crazy Martin’s still?”  


“Yes.”  


“You’re going to get us all killed,” Chronicler said, dread smothering the words.  


“No, actually.” Bast had released Chronicler’s shoulder and was walking through the metal vats and pans. “I owe him one and am evening the record. Well, someone else owes him one, but he probably couldn’t do it.”  


“So you’re playing fair?”  


“I can.”  


“Except when it comes to someone you love.”  


Bast froze, and then continued in a near normal tone. “What do you know of love?”  


“Not much.” There was no point he could see to lie. “Except for truth, and stories. My craft.” Somehow he felt that Bast would understand.  


Bast looked at him sidelong, and at some point the moment grew heavy. “For a human backwater, this place has a lot of that.”  


Chronicler replied, “Maybe why I keep ending up here.”  


Bast smiled, slow and human. Devan kept still, trying to breath normally, trying to act normally, the closet unlocked. Still like a hunter, and still like a hunted doe. Though Bast’s expression went back to its normal sly pleasantness, the smile hid like a darting trout under the surface. He curved his fingers forward in an encouragement, and Chronicler followed to do as he would bid.

*

What Bast bade was that Chronicler help him fix Crazy Martin’s still (Chronicler did wonder what had happened to it in the first place). Chronicler didn’t bother protesting that his knowledge was more or less supposed to be of the academic stripe rather than the practical. Fall or no it turned into hot, intellectually madcap work - Chronicler was enjoying himself, though not the general stickiness of the work, and reflecting that it would be a shame if Kvothe never saw his student like this, an inventor who’d be both a pride and a headache of the University, much like Kvothe himself.  


Chronicler felt one step behind and enjoyed trying to drag Bast along behind in return when it came to the intricate chemicals, processes, and metals of a one-man brewery.  


And when the deed was more or less done - as best they could guess, at least - Bast suggested they help themselves to some of Martin’s stash and, feeling proud of himself, Chronicler agreed.  


He kind of had a hard time remembering exactly what happened after that point. They were both sparkling, brilliant. And of course everything made sense because Bast was a Fae and as such was brilliant. Maybe Chronicler suggested that Bastas join the University. Maybe Bast didn’t take the suggestion well. Maybe Chronicler tried to appease him by suggesting he write his book, and maybe it worked. And they ended up out in the sun somehow, leaning against a rock, slumped together, laughing and Chronicler halfway to collapse.

*

If he had to guess the following morning, Chronicler would say that Bast had smuggled him back in through a back door, though he couldn’t swear to anything. Bast was kind enough to remove his reeking shirt for him, or so he found in the morning, but hadn’t exactly tucked him in, being content with throwing half the blanket over him.

*

“I hate you,” Chronicler hissed to Bast the following morning, suffering a fierce hangover.  


“Oh, sure you do.”


	7. Chapter 7

“It’s our day off,” Bast said one morning.  


“I didn’t think we had those.”  


“Of course we do.” Bast rolled his eyes. “Effectively.”  


“I had noticed this.”  


“But this day especially.” Bast came out from behind the counter and moved to look over Chronicler’s shoulder at his parchment and pen hand, frowning curiously but didn’t ask outright. His apron was covered in flour, and somehow he’d got some of it in his hair. Devan made ready to elbow him back if it looked like he was going to drip any onto his parchment. “Do you want to learn about the local customs?”  


Chronicler paused. “Are there any I don’t know about?”  


Bast smiled like a polecat.  


“I - think that there aren’t any more specifically that I need to know about,” Chronicler said.  


Bast shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He returned to behind the counter.

*

When Bast very shortly finished his work and left the Waystone after a change of clothes, Chronicler put his pen down. While in no way as “tapped in” to village life as the innkeeper or his apprentice, Devan had become the town scribe and even participated in some aspects of village life outside the Waystone’s walls; and as such had heard his share of rumors. And so by a turn of luck had heard a particular one about Bast.  


He told himself that he was just going to see if Bast was acting the faeling tale prince and using glamourie for what it was he was doing.

*

Chronicler figured that he’d have to be sneaky about this (nothing Bastas wasn’t familiar with, he reflected darkly). There would probably be social repercussions if he weren’t, but most of that went back into a separate closet at the back of his mind. He didn’t bring his satchel with him, obviously. He felt sort of naked without it.  


He didn’t lock the door behind himself. Bast didn’t feel that locking a friend out was worth protecting against the narrow possibility that someone might try to steal from or attack either of them. It was almost certainly a decision made by Kvothe’s absence.

*

As luck would have it, Chronicler arrived at Bast’s bathing spot before the rest of the flock of admirers, or at least as far as he could tell.  


Bast was fiddling with his block of soap and waiting in the sun. Chronicler wondered how the girls of the village (well, so he assumed, he reflected a tad guiltily) assumed that Bast had no idea what they did. Bast had never stated his knowledge to Chronicler, but he knew anyway.  


Chronicler noted rustling and flashes of color in the surrounding trees as Bast surfaced from his first plunge, shaking himself like a dog. Then he started washing his shirt, which Chronicler thought was rather boring, but it did make a picturesque scene, the muscles of his broad shoulders bunching and flexing. Devan watched raptly, sure that all this would at some point involve glamourie, not thinking that human foibles had as much to do with faeling stories as magic ever did.

*

Chronicler waited until all the hiding girls had fled before attempting his own escape. He saw one girl simply walk by Bast’s pool where he was sunning, mostly dressed, on his rock, surely trying to provoke a fortuitous incident. He didn’t see Bast carefully fail to notice her.  


Devan failed to keep back an embarrassed squeak when a warm, river-damp hand grabbed his arm. He relented as Bast turned him to face him, stiff, face red. At least Bast was clothed now, though barefoot. He looked amused.  


“You’re a liar, Chronicler.”  


“Ah .. yes. Objective observation …” He ran a hand through his hair, nervous.  


“Objective?” Bast was beaming like a cat at cream, like a brat at Yuletide. “And what was your ‘objective’ opinion?”  


Devan couldn’t keep himself from looking Bast up and down, quickly, from his rough bare feet to his wiry crossed arms, handsome face and shining eyes, curling black hair with little gems of water stuck in the curls. “That I’ve read too many stories and that you didn’t use magic and you didn’t need to use magic.”  


Bast laughed. “Remember to breathe in between those words. Are you sorry for spying on me?”  


“N - I don’t think you’re actually upset.”  


Bast raised an eyebrow and chuckled again. He had a wonderful laugh, light, uneven, and musical. “Well, no, but are you sorry for spying on me?”  


Chronicler took a deep breath through the tightness in his chest. “I’m not sorry for spying on you, Bast.”  


Bastas moved his hand up Devan’s arm, standing directly in front of him, resting it where his shirt collar ended, very light on the skin. “Are you sure?”  


“I’m sure.”  


The Fae crowded up against him, his hand going from the crook of Devan’s neck to the soft hair at the nape, and his other hand circled his wrist lightly, and Devan closed his eyes and exhaled softly, and Bast kissed him, sweet and slow.


End file.
